


Loud Hands

by Katzedecimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: British Sign Language, Brotherhood, Gen, Gift Fic, ablism, abuse disguised as therapy, quiet hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock is injured, memories from the past drive Mycroft into dealing with the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loud Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [finnemoreshusband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnemoreshusband/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Medication for Sorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/691855) by [finnemoreshusband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnemoreshusband/pseuds/finnemoreshusband). 



_Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands._

He jerked awake, feeling disturbed in the pit of his stomach. He sat up, the bed creaking under his weight. It was that dream again. He shivered and swung his legs out from under the sheets and onto the floor. 

_Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands._

That was what they used to chant to him. They held his hands against his sides or held them to the table top. _"Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands."_

They didn't seem to care that they were hurting him. They didn't seem to care that he cried. 

He slipped his robe over his shoulders and padded down the hallway towards the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a small glass of port, trying to shake the memories back into the past. 

Of course, they didn't like him crying, either. They were full of baffling contradictions, he reflected. Always trying to get him to use his voice, then admonishing him when he did. _"Use your words, Mycroft. Use your words."_

He could talk; he just didn't like to. The sound of his own voice was deafening in his ears even now. Nobody understood that, until his baby brother was born. 

_Why now?_ he wondered as he sipped the sweet, tawny liquid. He hadn't had that dream in years. Why did he dream it now? He swallowed the last of the port and twitched. And turned his head towards the sound his sensitive ears had registered. Silently he rose, taking a weapon from the drawer in the cabinet, and glided back towards his bedroom. And stopped. And stared. "What are _you_ doing here?" he snapped.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead falling to sit on the bed. The way he moved told Mycroft immediately that his brother was injured, and his heavy breathing told him that Sherlock had been exerting himself, likely running, for a while. He flicked on the lamp and Sherlock blinked, squinting in the sudden light. "Sherlock?" His brother was bruised and had clearly been beaten, likely tortured. His clothes didn't fit - stolen, then - and were stained in places with blood. A dark bandanna was tied about his neck. "How bad are your injuries? Is anything broken?"

Sherlock wordlessly held out his arm, swollen near the elbow, then pointed at his ankle. "You've been running on a broken ankle?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shrugged. "Did they withhold food? How long since you've eaten?" Another shrug. Mycroft tapped on his mobile, "I'm summoning medical attention." Sherlock just shrugged and nodded. "Who did this to you?" When Sherlock didn't answer, he looked up, "You're not usually **this** quiet. Usually you would have insulted me twice by now... _oh._ "

Not a dark bandanna. A bandanna soaked with blood. There was a thick wadding underneath it, crushed flat by how tightly the bandanna had been tied. "Was your throat cut?" Sherlock nodded, his eyes pleading. Mycroft sat on the bed beside him as the truth sank in, "Can you talk?" 

Sherlock shook his head.

* * * * 

_"Ten, maybe fifteen percent."_

Mycroft gazed down at his baby brother. He had fed Sherlock, then the medical team had come to examine him and stitch his wounds, then finally Sherlock had fallen into an exhausted sleep while the doctors gave Mycroft their pronouncements. 

_"Ten, maybe fifteen percent."_

Sherlock had been early to talk, while Mycroft had been late. Sherlock could chatter endlessly if you hit upon one of his interests, until he ran out of things to talk about and fell silent. Sherlock might not talk for days, or he might talk to himself while contentedly working on his experiments. But alone of all their family, Sherlock understood Mycroft's love of silence and was the only one who would grant it without complaint. 

Now he had no choice. 

A ten, maybe fifteen percent chance of Sherlock ever regaining the use of his voice, and even if he did, it would likely remain a raspy whisper. Never again would Mycroft hear his brother's low, rich tones. Never again would he hear his brother's complaints or his insults. Never again would he hear his brother chatter about his work. 

Sherlock preferred to text. But texting was inefficient for long conversation. Typing was fast but not always accessible. 

_"Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands."_

Mycroft stared at his hands, then gazed at his sleeping brother. _No,_ he thought, _No more quiet hands. Hands cannot be quiet any longer._ He picked up his phone and sent a message to his assistant. Tomorrow, they would be visited by an instructor of British Sign Language. They would take a curriculum together. Though it would try both of them, they would attend some Deaf events together, to gain conversational fluency. 

_No more quiet hands,_ Mycroft thought, _Loud hands._


End file.
